


i'm so glad i live in a world where there are octobers

by leannerd



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Multi, October Prompt Challenge, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Various AUs, look it's none of my business what this is about, shameless multi-shipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leannerd/pseuds/leannerd
Summary: 31 Prompts31 FicletsVarying ships, lengths, some canon compliant, but mostly notPrepare for tooth-rotting fluff and shameless multi-shippingHappy Promptober!
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Tsukishima Kei, Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, Tendou Satori/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 71





	1. head in the clouds (but my gravity's centered)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1! (yes I am aware I'm already WELL behind schedule)
> 
> Prompt: Sweater Weather  
> Ship: Ushijima/Oikawa  
> Title From: Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood
> 
> Enjoy!

The bed is cold when Oikawa wakes up.

Well, maybe not _cold_ , per se, but there is a definite lack of body heat and Oikawa’s pretty sure that’s what wakes him up at the ungodly hour of--he squints at the digital clock on the desk in the corner of the bedroom, not bothering to fumble around for his glasses--3:27 in the morning. He flops his head back on the pillow and stretches an arm out over the expanse of empty space next to him. It’s cool to the touch. There’s no tell-tale strip of light under the door that leads to the bathroom--or the one to the hall, for that matter.

Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut in the futile hope that he will somehow fall straight back to sleep, but gives it up after approximately thirty seconds. He turns, wrapping himself tighter in his blanket, and glares at the empty space in the bed. He’s become far too accustomed to Wakatoshi’s presence in this bed--the way the mattress dips under his weight, his steady breathing, the warmth that radiates off of him like a goddamn space heater--and its absence is so apparent, it makes it hard to slip back into sleep. He’s going to have to go find him if he wants a few more hours of rest before he _has_ to get up for the day.

“Stupid ‘Toshi,” he grumbles, flipping the blankets off himself and sliding out of the bed.

The cold air immediately wraps itself around Oikawa’s skin and snaps him from a state of irritated sleepiness to fully annoyed and fully awake. Goosebumps erupt over his chest and arms and he snags the first item of clothing he sees draped across the cedar chest at the end of the bed.

It’s a sweater--a soft, cream, cable-knit thing that Oikawa bought for Ushijima despite his boyfriend’s protests that it was “not really my style” and “unnecessary, I have plenty of suitable sweaters, Tooru.” But, as Oikawa pulls the sweater over his head and nuzzles his face down in the collar, inhaling the distinctly Ushijima scent that lingers there--something earthy and warm and so, so nice that always seems to cling to Ushijima’s skin no matter what soap or lotion or cologne he wears--he’s glad he insisted.

And he’s really, really glad he insisted when he remembers how Ushijima looked _in_ that sweater, handsome as all get out and a little shy before their date, how cozy he felt, easily tucked into Ushijima’s side as they walked home from the restaurant, how Oikawa’s hands had slid under the soft knit, mapping out warm muscles (as though he hadn’t already committed them to memory) before pulling the offending, though very stylish, article of clothing over his head and leading him to bed.

He smiles at the memory and steps out into the hall, curling his hands into the over-long sleeves. It’s even cooler in the hallway and Oikawa’s fairly certain (though not one hundred percent as he was slightly...distracted...right before bed) that they had closed all the windows before retiring for the night.

_Which means...ah._

The big sliding glass door off the living room is wide open and Ushijima is sitting, hunched forward just a little, in one of the two low, wooden patio chairs on their balcony. Oikawa takes a moment to admire his boyfriend, silhouetted by pots of flowers and greenery that fill the small space and make him look like something out of the shoujo manga he _definitely_ never stole from his sister’s room. The broad line of Ushijima’s shoulders contrast with his adorably ruffled bedhead in a way that affects Oikawa more than he’ll ever admit. 

“Toshiiii,” he calls, leaning against the doorframe before he can completely forget his annoyance at being woken, cold and alone, at such a dreadful hour. “What are you doing?”

Ushijima turns to gaze at Oikawa over his shoulder and damn if he _really_ doesn’t look like something out of a shoujo manga. He half expects his boyfriend to hold out his hand and say something like, _‘I’ll always protect you,’_ or _‘I’ll never leave your side.’_

“Tooru, you’ll catch a cold,” is what he says instead which is significantly less romantic, but much more on brand and also annoyingly true so Oikawa supposes he can’t fault him for that.

Still, he can’t help but preen, just a little, as Ushijima’s gaze slowly, deliberately, travels the length of him. Ushijima is lit only by the flickery yellow lights mounted on either side of their balcony, but it’s impossible to miss the way his eyes darken as they drag up long, bare legs, the sliver of black boxer shorts peeking out from under the cream sweater which all but dwarfs his upper body. He nuzzles his face into the collar of the sweater, partly to hide the blush he can feel starting to color his cheeks (he’ll be damned if, even after two years, he’ll let Ushijima know how quickly a simple Look can throw him off) and partly just to see what his boyfriend will do.

He’s not disappointed; Ushijima’s face remains studiously neutral, but Oikawa’s trained himself to spot the quirk of his eyebrow, the clench of his jaw, and the glint in his eyes that may as well scream, _‘Mine, mine, mine.’_

“Tooru, what are you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?” 

Ushijima asks the questions like he’s suggesting he go back to bed, but he reaches out for Oikawa’s hand anyway, which is just as well because it’s not like he’s planning on going back to bed alone.

Oikawa takes his hand and laces their fingers together, smiling as Ushijima tugs gently, urging Oikawa to curl up on his lap. He obliges, pulling his legs up towards his body and resting his head in the crook of Ushijima’s neck, a small, contented noise escaping his lips when Ushijima brings his other hand around to rest on Oikawa’s knee.

It’s nice, he thinks, how delicate Ushijima can make him feel, without even trying. Oikawa’s not a particularly small man, but Ushijima has an easy three inches on him and is so broad and solid that it’s hard _not_ to feel that way with him. Not that Oikawa’s complaining at all, not when Ushijima’s hand practically engulfs Oikawa’s knee, heat practically radiating from his palm and soothing the dull ache that lives there, not when he fits so nicely under the warmth of Ushijima’s arm, and _definitely_ not when he knows Ushijima can just pick him up like he weighs nothing at all and-

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ushijima murmurs, nuzzling just a little into Oikawa’s hair.

“Well I didn’t come out here to _seduce_ you, if that’s what you think, ‘Toshi,” Oikawa huffs.

Ushijima hums and thumbs at the ribbed waistband of the sweater, now a little bunched up around Oikawa’s hips. “Ah, so you just came out here like this because…”

“Because,” Oikawa says, swatting halfheartedly at Ushijima’s wrist because, while he loves this soft, playful side of Ushijima (actually he loves every side of Ushijima, to be perfectly, stupidly honest), he knows avoidant behavior when he sees it and he _did_ actually come out here for a reason. “I woke up _alone_ for the third time this week. And it’s...Wednesday.”

Ushijima’s shoulders slump slightly and Oikawa’s heart cracks, just a little. He tips his head back to inspect his boyfriend’s face, the turned-down corners of his lips, the sadness just behind his olive-green eyes. How long had it been there? And how had he just noticed?

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“I’m sorry,” Ushijima sighs, still toying with the hem of the sweater. He won’t meet Oikawa’s eyes, his gaze unfocused and somewhere off in the distance. “I suppose my recent shift in schedule has affected me more than I expected. I didn’t mean to disrupt your sleep.”

Oikawa huffs and pinches the back of Ushijima’s hand, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to pull his eyes down to meet Oikawa’s.

“I’m-”

“The only thing you should be apologizing for is not talking to me about this earlier, you giant oaf!”

His sudden indignance startles a laugh out of Ushijima. “I know, I know. But I didn’t want to bother you with this. And,” he holds up a hand to silence Oikawa before he can even open his mouth to protest, “I didn’t think it would be this-”

“Painful?” Oikawa finishes for him.

“Yeah.”

“Retirement is...a big deal.” Oikawa nuzzles back into Ushijima’s hold, speaking his next words into the warm skin of the other man’s throat. “Volleyball has been your life for...well, for your entire life. So it’s okay to mourn that, or feel lost, or,” he waves a hand vaguely, “have trouble adjusting to your newfound free time thereby disrupting your loving boyfriend’s sleep schedule.” 

Ushijima chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against Oikawa’s cheek. “How did you handle it? When you retired?”

“Oh, ‘Toshi, you know me. The king of poor coping mechanisms,” he says dismissively. “I handled it badly, went a little off the rails. Not good, but nothing surprising to anyone who knows me as a person.”

“Tooru-”

“But,” Oikawa interrupts, tightening his hold on Ushijima’s hand, “you have something I didn’t.”

“And what’s that?” 

“Oh, just the aforementioned loving boyfriend,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against the hollow of Ushijima’s throat. “One who would do, quite literally, anything to see you happy.” 

“Ah,” he says, and Oikawa can hear the smile in his voice and thinks that is, possibly, one of his favorite sounds. “Does that ‘anything’ include allowing me to accompany you to practice tomorrow?”

“You want to help me coach middle schoolers?”

“Help, observe,” he gives the sweater a playful tug. “I could be the ball boy, if you like.”

“Now that does sound appealing,” he laughs, drawing back to look Ushijima full in the face, relishing the soft, fond expression, the one reserved solely for Oikawa, before leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “How about you take me back to bed, then we’ll talk.”

“That sounds reasonable to me,” he says and, before Oikawa can make a move to stand, slips one arm under Oikawa’s knees and winds the other around his waist and stands, steady on his feet and cradling Oikawa as though he weighs nothing.

“Oh,” he breathes, looping his arms around Ushijima’s neck and pressing his face against his broad chest to once again try (and fail, if his boyfriend’s low chuckle is anything to go by) to hide the flush rising on his cheeks.

When the clock clicks over from 4:59 to 5:00, OIkawa is no longer cold. The sweater’s once again been flung haphazardly across the room and Ushijima is holding him, warm and steady and oh, so careful even in sleep and all is right in their little world, at least for the moment. He presses himself closer, pushing away thoughts of how tired (and sore) and grouchy he is probably going to be in the morning in favor of relishing the memory of Ushijima’s whispered, “Thank you, Tooru, I love you,” against his hair before immediately drifting back to sleep.

“Stupid ‘Toshi,” he grumbles, not bothering to hide his blush or his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally always taking ship requests! Thank you all for reading!


	2. if it means that we get through (then you know i'm up for anything)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2!
> 
> Prompt: Haunted/Haunting  
> Ship: Kageyama/Hinata  
> Title From: Anything by Catfish and the Bottlemen
> 
> (Psst, please let me know if you have ship requests, especially if they are rare pairs/poly ships! I'd like to stretch my muscles a little!)
> 
> Please enjoy and as always, comments and kudos give me life and serotonin and I could definitely use both right now! <3

Kageyama stares at the sign nailed across the door, helpfully labelled _BEWARE_ and surrounded by streaks of what looks like blood but he’s pretty sure is actually red paint. There’s strings of fuzzy white cotton that he _thinks_ are supposed to resemble cobwebs surrounding the doorframe, and a red, smudged handprint on the door’s tiny window.

It doesn’t look like much--it is just a class-run haunted house, after all, part of the school festival--but Hinata is next to him practically vibrating with excitement anyway.

“Let’s go in, Kageyama!”

“No way.”

Kageyama turns away from the door, ready to stalk down the hallway and find something more interesting to do with his time--maybe the gym is open and he and Hinata can sneak in some practice time--but a hand is around his wrist in an instant, stopping him in his tracks. 

Hinata’s hand is small, almost delicate, gripped tightly around his wrist, but Kageyama knows well the power it contains. Not just on the volleyball court either, though that is certainly where he first noticed it. That hand--well, both of them, really--with their bitten off nails and calloused palms, have the power to set Kageyama’s skin on fire, to make the hairs on his arms stand up on end, to set his pulse racing so hard it _must_ be noticeable under Hinata’s fingertips.

**__** _Shit._

Kageyama wrenches his wrist out of Hinata’s grip and fixes him with a glare. “You seriously want to? It looks-”

“Awesome!”

“Dumb...is what I was going to say.”

“Come onnnnn,” Hinata whines in a way that should set Kageyama’s teeth on edge, used to set them on edge, but now just fills him with a tired resignation because he knows he’s ultimately going to give in to whatever the stupid redhead wants.

But that doesn’t mean he has to make it easy.

“You’ll get too scared,” Kageyama sniffs, ignoring the offended noise Hinata makes. “It won’t be any fun with you clinging to me like a damn spider monkey!”

Except now that he’s said it out loud, he can kind of see the appeal and the thought only makes him scowl harder.

“I will not!” Hinata huffs. “I don’t get scared that easy!”

“Liar,” Kageyama snorts, “You ran into Asahi-san in the middle of the night at training camp and almost pissed yourself!”

“Asahi can be scary! Especially in the middle of the night when you’re not expecting to run into a giant!” Hinata throws his arms out in protest, and when that serves to only draw another derisive snort from Kageyama, he tries another tactic. “You can just say _you’re_ scared, Yamayama, and we can leave.”

Hinata tries to pass the statement off as a casual suggestion, but Hinata is anything but subtle and even if Kageyama wasn’t finely attuned to the shine in Hinata’s eyes or the stubborn jut of his jaw, he still knows a challenge when he hears it. 

As though every little thing Hinata says isn’t a challenge in one way or another.

“Oi, dumbass, I’m not-”

“Alright, then it’s settled, let’s go!” Hinata interrupts and then his hand is circling Kageyama’s wrist again and pulling him towards the door with the dumb sign and the cheap-looking spiderwebs strewn haphazardly around it because the little _shit_ knows he’s won.

“Geh, fine. Just don’t expect me to carry you out of there when you have a heart attack and keel over,” his smirk only widens at the sound of Hinata’s disgruntled squawk.

He doesn’t pull his arm out of Hinata’s grip this time, allows himself to be led by that small hand, warm and just a little sweaty, through the door into the makeshift haunted house with its flickery lighting and eerie music and foggy air that stings Kageyama’s eyes just a little. The place is creepier than he had expected 

Hinata’s hand remains on Kageyama’s wrist for all of one minute of their tour before the first dead body on the floor reaches toward them, wailing their names. At that point, Hinata lets out a squeak and slips his palm against Kageyama’s, laces their fingers tightly together and squeezes as hard as he can. Their knuckles crush together painfully and Hinata’s short nails bite into the back of Kageyama’s hand and he’s not sure if the sweat slicking his palms and the feeling his heart is going to beat out of his chest comes from the contact between them or the ghoul that pops out of the makeshift coffin a foot to their right.

They’re still holding hands when they make it to the entrance of the school, racing to get as far away from the admittedly pretty terrifying--Kageyama’s pretty sure no teacher signed off on the amount of fake blood that was used--haunted house. They’re both out of breath and a little sweaty and, for once, not bickering--probably because they’re both equally freaked out and neither of them really has a leg to stand on.

He can feel Hinata’s pulse pounding wildly in his fingertips, matching his own beat for beat. The redhead’s grip has slackened, but his fingers still slot neatly between Kageyama’s own with enough pressure to make it clear that it’s intentional and Kageyama fights his first instinct to pull away and shove his hands deep in the pockets of his track jacket. Because, though that seems like the safer option (because whatever _this_ is feels unstable and dangerous and very, very right), he would honestly rather die than disrupt whatever it is that’s happening right now. 

Hinata turns and looks at Kageyama then, eyes bright even in the dull light of the streetlamp they’ve stopped under. “I-”

He pauses and Kageyama’s mind works overtime, supplying the rest of the statement.

**__** _I had fun with you._

_I like holding your hand._

_I like you, Kageyama._

“I...still want to hit some tosses tonight!” 

A strange mix of disappointment and relief floods Kageyama’s body and he bites back the fond smile threatening to show itself on his face because, really, what else could he have expected? Hinata’s got a one-track mind and, up until recently when his daydreaming shifted from volleyball plays and Daichi’s hand signals to red hair and brown eyes and small, strong hands, Kageyama thought that was yet another thing they had in common.

He brings a hand up, the one that’s not still cradling Hinata’s because apparently they’re at an impasse and neither is willing to let go quite yet (and it’s nice, so nice and, god, he hopes Hinata thinks so too), and crushes it into the fluffy orange curls, applying enough pressure to make him let out an indignant squeak, but not enough to really hurt--never enough to hurt Hinata. “Fine, Dumbass, let’s go see if the gym is open. You gotta hit some receives first, though!”

“Gah, no fair!” Hinata wails, swatting at the hand in his hair. “You said you’d toss for me tonight!”

“Yeah, well consider this punishment for making me go through that dumb haunted house with you!” 

“It wasn’t that bad!”

“Was too!”

“Was not!” 

“Was too!”

“Was-”

He’s not sure what possesses him in that moment, maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, maybe it’s the electricity crackling between their clasped hands (can Hinata feel that too? He must be able to), or maybe it’s just the sheer desire to get the little twerp to _just shut up_ , but before he can even think about what he’s doing, he brings Hinata’s hand up to his mouth and brushes his lips across his knuckles.

It’s barely a kiss. It’s _not_ a kiss. His lips barely touch Hinata’s skin, but it’s enough to set his lips--his whole face, actually--on fire. He drops Hinata’s hand and shoves his own hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, turning away from where Hinata stands, frozen, staring up at him wide-eyed and starting towards the gym. He’s not sure if Hinata will follow, but either way he’s ready to hit jump serves until he passes out or dies, whichever comes first.

“Wait up, Yamayama!” Hinata rushes to catch up to him, smile wide and blinding as ever and, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, shoves his own hand to join Kageyama’s in the pocket of his track jacket, wiggling his fingers until Kageyama unclenches his fist and they’re able to twine together.

“Toss for me?” he asks, and Kageyama has to bite the inside of his cheek simply to keep his smile in check, otherwise it might split his face in half.

“Sure thing, Dumbass.”


	3. heaven help a fool (who falls in love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3!
> 
> Prompt: Candy Apples  
> Ship: Atsumu/Hinata (though this piece mostly revolves around that good, good sibling relationship between Atsumu and Osamu)  
> Title From: Ophelia by The Lumineers
> 
> Hope you enjoy! As always, comments and kudos feed my soul! <3

“Saaaaamuuuuuuu!”

“No free samples!” Osamu snaps. He doesn’t bother to look up from where he’s carefully restocking his little booth with trays and trays of candy apples and even if he hadn’t heard his brother’s screech from ten yards away, the tell-tale twitch in his eye is a dead giveaway of his twin’s approach. “What do you want?”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your senpai?”

“Shut up, idiot,” Osamu grunts, exchanging yet another empty tray with a full one. At the rate things are going, he’ll be sold out well before the evening’s over. He makes a mental note to recalculate his inventory for next weekend. “You're _not_ my senpai.”

“But I'm three minutes older!” Atsumu whines, reaching forward to try to snatch a candy apple from the front row. Osamu slaps his hand away and fixes him with a glare.

“True. Yet socially-emotionally speaking you are still a fetus,” he hums. “A true miracle of science.”

Atsumu makes an offended noise and Osamu allows a small smirk to show itself on his face. “So mean, ‘Samu! I come all this way to grace you with my presence and this is the thanks I get?”

“‘Tsumu,” Osamu says, stacking the last empty tray under the booth and resurfacing just in time to slap his brother’s hand away from yet another candy apple. “honestly, If I wanted to look at your dumb face I'd look in the mirror and cross my eyes.”

“Hey, if I’m cross-eyed, that means you are too, dumbass!”

“Hey, I’m fairly certain that’s not how that works, dumber-ass!”

Atsumu makes a rude noise and Osamu turns to face him fully, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing him with an appraising look. His fingers tap an uneasy rhythm against the cheap wood of Osamu’s temporary booth and there’s some kind of weird tension behind his usual lazy smile. It’s an expression he knows well, despite seeing it so rarely on his twin, because it’s the one he’s used to wearing in most circumstances. 

Nervousness. Uneasiness. Anxiety.

“‘Tsumu,” he says, and his brother’s hands still and flatten themselves against the booth. Osamu is glad there’s a lull between customers--though it is surprising because nothing brings in the business like the more famous, more exuberant Miya twin. “Where’s Shouyou? Aren’t you two supposed to be here on a date?”

“Oh, we are, he just had to use the bathroom, I told him I was comin’ over here to bug you.”

“Aren’t I the lucky one?”

Atsumu just hums, his fingers back to tap tap tapping against Osamu’s booth. He doesn’t rise to the bait, which only serves to worry Osamu further. Atsumu is easy to provoke, quick to retaliate, so his lack of response is concerning, to say the least.

“Okay, are you going to tell me what the problem is or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

“Tch,” Atsumu clicks his tongue, “you wish.”

“Better save us both the trouble, then, and just tell me. Is everything okay with Shouyou?”

Atsumu’s eyes brighten instantly, his smile less strained. “Yeah, they’re great. Really, really great…”

“But?”

“No but,” Atsumu says, and then casts his eyes around suspiciously, as though to make sure there’s nobody watching or listening. “I just-” he digs in the inner pocket of his yukata, a swirl of blues and grays that Osamu’s never seen before--he assumes he bought it new for this festival--and pulls out a small black box.

Osamu’s eyes widen and this time he doesn’t bother trying to bite back his smile. He punches his brother in the shoulder, maybe a little harder than he means to, and Atsumu bats his hand away. “Are you- Is that-?”

Atsumu bites his lip and nods, flipping open the box and setting it on the counter between them; a simple, shiny black band glittering in the low, dusky light. His cheeks are flushed bright red and his eyes are soft and far away and suddenly his air of nervousness makes total sense. 

Osamu shouldn’t be surprised, not really. Atsumu’s never been short of admirers, but for him it’s really only ever been Hinata. From the day they first played each other at nationals coming up on ten years ago, he’s been obsessed with the little ball of sunshine. Osamu’s pretty sure he can still, years later, feel the lingering effects of the migraine he developed the night Atsumu found out Hinata was being recruited by the Black Jackals; he had called Osamu shrieking incoherent nonsense for ten minutes straight before Osamu could even begin to comprehend what had him so worked up. 

At first, Osamu had thought it was just an infatuation on both their parts, he’d warned Atsumu against pursuing a teammate, but the two moved quickly through mutual admiration to respect to a deep fondness to, at some point or another, love, and Osamu’s never seen his brother happier. The genuine affection between the two of them, while disgusting to witness up close and personal, is comforting. It’s nice to know his twin has someone that can keep up with him, keep him in line, and cares for more than just his name. This time, at least, he’s glad Atsumu didn’t listen to him.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, staring down at the ring with a soft smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, ‘Samu. I just...I had to be sure, ya know? And I guess I’m still not?”

“You aren’t sure you want to marry him?”

Atsumu’s eyes snap up to Osamu’s and he frowns. “No! No, I’m sure. I’ve been sure for...uh, for a long time.”

Osamu frowns. “Okay, then what’s the problem? It’s not like he’s gonna say no.”

If possible, Atsumu’s cheeks go an even brighter shade of red and he splutters. “How- how can you just say that? How can you know? What if-”

“Oh, come on, ‘Tsumu!” he throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. Nerves, he understands. But this? This is ridiculous, even for Atsumu. “You’re such a dramatic little idiot. Anyone that looks at you the way Shouyou does is not gonna say no when you propose. The guy is absolutely head over heels for you for _some_ reason,” he holds up a hand to stop Atsumu’s protest in its tracks. “Listen, I know you’re nervous, but it’s going to be great. Sho loves you. Like, really loves you. It’s pretty gross, actually.”

Atsumu chokes out a watery laugh and rakes a shaky hand through his blonde hair. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re right, ‘Samu.”

“Sorry, can you say that a little louder? I didn’t quite catch that.” 

“In your dreams!” Atsumu takes one last, fond look at the ring and grins up at Osamu with all the goofy brightness he’s used to seeing. “You do have a point, though, little brother. I am quite the catch!”

“I don’t know if i’d go that far,” Osamu hums, his eyes suddenly drawn to a point over his brother’s shoulder. “But,” he murmurs, nodding to the approaching figure, “unless you wanna propose right here, right now, I’d put that away.”

Atsumu has just enough time to click the box closed and shove it back in the pocket of his yukata before the redhead bounces up to them, all red curls and shining eyes and blinding smiles. He leans into Atsumu and the blonde tucks him into his side easily, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth and smiling down at him with a stupid, lovestruck expression that Osamu’s come to know well since Hinata started coming around more and more often.

“Miya-san! How are you?”

“Shouyou,” he laughs, “how many times am I going to have to tell you to call me Osamu?”

“At least another dozen times, probably!” He laughs lightly and turns to admire the rows of bright red candy apples. “No onigiri today? Oooh, these look so good though! Wow!”

“No, I’m trying a little something new this year. They seem to be going over pretty well so far.”

“I bet! You are the best chef I know, Mi--Osamu.”

Osamu laughs again and shakes his head. “Well you must not know many chefs, Shouyou, but thank you for saying it.”

Hinata beams, then turns his face up to look at Atsumu who’s been watching the exchange with a soft, fond smile on his face. “Are you ready for the ferris wheel?” 

“The ferris wheel, huh?” Osamu quirks a knowing eyebrow at Atsumu. His brother sends him a death glare that, unsurprisingly, goes unnoticed by Hinata.

“Mhm!” the redhead bobs his head, nudging Atsumu with his shoulder. “This big sap was insistent we get there in time for the sunset!”

“Well, we better get going then!” Atsumu interjects loudly before Osamu can open his mouth to respond, taking Hinata’s hand and twining their fingers together.

“Here,” Osamu says, plucking one of the larger candy apples off the tray and offering it to HInata. “A snack while you two wait in line.” He waves Hinata off when the redhead starts digging in his pockets for his money and pushes the apple toward him. “On the house. Family discount,” he says with a smirk in Atsumu’s direction.

“Thank you, Miya-san!” he exclaims and as the couple turns away, Osamu can’t help but overhear him scold Atsumu for always complaining about the _lack_ of family discount. 

He watches them for a brief moment, walking hand-in-hand and laughing loud, pausing momentarily so Hinata can lift the candy apple to Atsumu’s mouth. _Shouyou Miya_ , he thinks, turning the name over in his mind; Osamu had always thought that ‘Tsumu was more than enough brother for him, but he’s gotta admit it’s got a nice ring to it. 


	4. stay with me (we ain't got no place to be)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4!
> 
> Prompt: Ghosts  
> Ship(s): Akaashi/Tsukishima, Bokuto/Kuroo, and a little whiff of our favorite OT4  
> Title From: stay with me by ayokay
> 
> This one is a little different and a lot shorter than my norm, but I hope you all enjoy it! It was a fun little bit of narrative experimentation.

The house is small, comfortable, cozy. It’s painted a nice shade of yellow and there’s a large cherry blossom tree in the front yard. It’s close enough to town that Tsukishima’s commute isn’t hellish, but far enough out that he and Akaashi have the quiet and privacy they crave. The back patio is comfortable and Akaashi likes to curl up in one of the chairs out there, keeping half an eye on the grill while he sketches. Sometimes he works on illustrations for the childrens’ book series he promises himself he’ll work on soon, one day, eventually. Most of the time, though, he sketches Tsukishima--tilling the soil of the small garden he started within the first week of moving in, trimming the hedges that line the fence, diligently pulling weeds. 

When they bought the house, it had seemed perfect for the two of them. 

And then the ghosts show up.

It happens slowly, then all at once because, for two people who have been dead for an undetermined amount of time, Bokuto and Kuroo are surprisingly lively. And impatient. 

They try to hold back at first--they like Akaashi and Tsukishima from the get-go and don’t want to scare them away. But it’s so difficult when they see them tucked into the couch in the evenings watching television ( _Planet Earth_ when it’s Tsukishima’s turn to pick, _Forensic Files_ when it’s Akaashi’s) or exchanging kisses and _I love you_ ’s by the front door every morning before Tsukishima leaves for work and Akaashi shuffles back into the kitchen for a second cup of coffee to take into the home office they’ve set up.

It’s a shock, to be sure, when Akaashi and Tsukishima come home after date night to see two men--one nearly as tall as Tsukishima with a wild head of dark hair, the other built like a brick wall with a shock of silver and black hair. They're holding hands, fingers loosely intertwined in a way that so perfectly mirrors Akaashi and Tsukishima it would be comical if it weren't so startling, and gazing at the photos on the mantle. 

It’s even more of a shock when they realize they can see _through_ the two men.

But time passes, the shock wears off, and soon (sooner than any of them would have predicted) Tsukishima and Akaashi grow used to Bokuto and Kuroo’s presence in their home, to welcome it even. They can’t always see them, or talk to them--from what they understand, it takes a lot of energy for Bokuto and Kuroo to physically manifest--but they feel them there just the same. Akaashi feels it in the way he can sense eyes on him while he’s curled up in the armchair sketching, filling him with the same warmth he feels when he catches Tsukishima eyeing him over the top of the book he’s pretending to read. Tsukishima feels it in a gentle pressure on his shoulders, massaging the tension out after a long day at work. 

Tsukishima and Akaashi take to cuddling in the middle of the couch, basking in the comforting pressure of the other two on either side of them. They start adding _The Great British Baking Show_ (Bokuto’s favorite) and _Twilight Zone_ (Kuroo’s choice) to their nightly television rotation. And every time Tsukishima and Akaashi fall asleep on the couch, something that happens more often than either of them like to admit, they wake up with their glasses neatly set on the end table and covered up in the soft, worn afghan they keep draped over the chair on the other end of the room.

Kuroo says if things had been different, they could have been friends.

Bokuto says if things had been different, they could have been more.


	5. i'm (still) falling for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4!
> 
> Prompt: Scarf  
> Ship: Daichi/Suga (though it is not necessarily...obvious? I guess?)  
> Title From: Falling for U by Peachy!
> 
> This one's a bit different and I have not written poetry in many, MANY moons, but I suppose Suga in that blue scarf (you all know the one) can bring out the poet in all of us. I hope you enjoy!

The scarf is nestled at the bottom of the box,  
folded and forgotten, under coats and jackets and hats.  
It unspools in my lap, that old blue scarf  
soft (like your eyes)  
warm (like your skin)  
vibrant (like your smile)  
You sneak up on me, dopey grin on my face  
(you're not really sneaky, I'm just far away-  
but your laugh brings me back, it always does).

_That old thing? Toss it, I've got nicer ones._

But I won't, and you know it, can tell it by my face, my grip.  
I tug you down next to me, loop it around your neck  
and you laugh and bury your face in the knit-  
cheeks pink, eyes sparkling, and suddenly I'm  
sixteen again, a dumb teenager in love with a boy  
too pretty to be real, too amazing to be mine.  
Except now you're both--real and mine.

 _I kissed you in that scarf,_ I say. _Remember?_

_You've kissed me lots of times, you sap._

It's true. I've kissed you hundreds of times,  
and I'll kiss you a million, billion more.  
A quick tug on the ends of the scarf  
and our lips crash together-  
like they were made for each other,  
like _we_ were made for each other.

When we part, your cheeks are pink,  
and your lips are red,  
and you're out of breath,  
and that look's definitely on the list of ways I like you best.

 _Fine, you win,_ you say, like it pains you  
(it doesn't--your smile gives you away).  
_We'll keep the scarf._


	6. i stared at your reflection on the glass (how could there ever be a sight better than that?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6!
> 
> Prompt: Mirrors  
> Ship: Bokuto/Akaashi  
> Title From: the way that i love u has changed by Chris Farren
> 
> Enjoy!

Bokuto carefully places the lid on the last container of cookies and stacks it atop the other four already packed in the cloth bag sitting on the kitchen counter. He knows he’s gone overboard (he always does when it comes to baking, he so rarely has time to do it anymore), but with the crowd that’s going to be at Kuroo and Tsukki’s annual Halloween party, it’s not like he’s going to be bringing home any leftovers.

He follows the sound of Akaashi’s “getting-ready” music, something soft and mellow that Bokuto can never remember the name of, the complete opposite of the K-Pop that Bokuto blasts at full volume from the time he gets in the shower until he and he grins, teasing words just on the tip of his tongue. Akaashi is always ready first, always reminding Bokuto of something he’s forgotten, so it’s rare that Bokuto gets a chance to ask the other man, _aren’t you ready yet, ‘Kaashi?_

The question dies before it passes his lips, though, and he stops short in the doorway. Akaashi is seated at the small desk they have set up in the corner that serves as his vanity, his phone set before him on its wireless charger . He’s shirtless, perched on the the stool and facing away from Bokuto, but the mirror is angled in a way that Bokuto can still see his face as he delicately pats a translucent powder under his eyes (setting powder, he remembers Akaashi saying once, and he’s proud of himself for remembering). He taps the excess powder off his brush and sets it aside before selecting a couple more brushes and an eyeshadow pallet and lining them up in front of him, a small pleased smile on his face.

Bokuto’s catalogued every one of Akaashi’s smiles, much in the way he knows Akaashi has catalogued his moods. He has a hard time choosing his favorite. There’s the one full of pride he searches out in the stands whenever he spikes past a particularly tough block. There’s the tiny embarrassed one that tugs on his lips when they’re in public and Bokuto can’t help but press a soft kiss to his temple, or his cheek, or the corner of his mouth, or anywhere he can reach, really, because restraint hasn’t ever been Bokuto’s strong suit. There’s the wide, blissed-out one Bokuto often catches when he raises his head from between Akaashi’s thighs, only to duck back down and pepper his skin with kisses as he works his way up to nestle his face into the crook of Akaashi’s neck (and actually, that one might be Bokuto’s favorite because he’s the only one that gets to see Akaashi that way and as much as he loves to show off how gorgeous his boyfriend is, he can be a little selfish too).

But this one, the one Akaashi wears while working on his makeup, the one Bokuto only sees in the mirror, is definitely high up on his list of favorites. Because this is something, one of the _very_ few things, that Akaashi does solely for himself. Akaashi has always loved makeup--Bokuto remembers when it first started appearing here and there, a little eyeliner, a little lip gloss, steadily getting bolder and bolder throughout their college years--but he so rarely gets an opportunity to wear it anymore. He puts in ridiculous hours in a conservative office where he can’t even wear the small diamond studs in his ears that Bokuto bought him for their anniversary, let alone smoky gray eyeshadow or a soft mauve lip stain (which just so happens to be one of Bokuto’s favorites). So Bokuto relishes the opportunity to just lean in the doorway and watch Akaashi, all soft and zen and in the zone and there’s no way he’s rushing him out the door now.

Bokuto watches, transfixed, while Akaashi carefully, meticulously, pats two powders over his eyelids, smoking them out until it’s a soft blend of purple and gray. He follows this up with a third pot of eyeshadow, this one bright purple and shimmery, that he carefully taps in the inner corners of his eyes. After he lines his eyes with quick, skilled sweeps of the black liquid liner, Bokuto can’t keep quiet any longer. He loves Akaashi’s eyes all the time, loves everything about him, but when he glances up and meets Bokuto’s eyes in the mirror, they look so soft and open and bright that he just can’t keep it in any longer.

“Wow,” he breathes, and Akaashi ducks his head, busying himself with capping his eyeliner and putting his pots of eyeshadow away.

“How long have you been watching, Kou?”

Bokuto crosses the room in three quick strides, leans down to press a kiss to Akaashi’s bare shoulder, then parks himself on the edge of the bed. “You look incredible,” he says in lieu of an answer. 

Akaashi just hums, his expression shifting between pleased at the compliment and embarrassed at the attention, something he’s still, somehow, not used to. “I’m almost done,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to his phone to check the time.

“We have plenty of time,” Bokuto says with a wide grin. 

“I wanted to try some of these new shadows,” Akaashi says, plucking a big fluffy brush off the table and brushing off the extra setting powder before picking another and going to work with what Bokuto recognizes as his favorite highlighter. “Sorry it’s taking so long, I couldn’t decide how to pair them up.”

“We have plenty of time,” he repeats and Akaashi rolls his eyes because he can read a clock and knows they were supposed to leave approximately four minutes ago. “Besides,” he gestures toward Akaashi, “you’re so happy when you’re doing this, so it’s worth the wait.”

Akaashi pauses with the lip color he’s chosen (and Bokuto’s thrilled to see it’s a stain because that means he won’t have to wait as long before kissing Akaashi without ruining it) halfway to his mouth. “C’mere,” he says, turning his stool around to face Bokuto. When Bokuto raises a questioning eyebrow, Akaashi sighs fondly and reaches out for his hand. “Come here and kiss me before I put this on my lips,” he says.

At that, Bokuto grins and moves quickly, taking his outstretched hand and dropping to his knees in front of his boyfriend. He gives Akaashi’s hand a gentle tug and captures his lips, slotting his own against them like it’s second nature which, by now, it is. Akaashi sighs into the kiss and Bokuto takes the opportunity to sweep his tongue along his lower lip. He brings his free hand up to rest on the bare skin of Akaashi’s waist, thumbing against the cut of his hip, just visible over his low-slung sweatpants and pulling a delicious shiver out of the other man. 

Bokuto nips at Akaashi’s lower lip when he finally does pull away, breathless and pink-cheeked under the shimmery highlighter. “Okay,” Akaashi groans, turning back to the mirror reluctantly, “I really have to finish getting ready or we’re never getting out of here.”

“I’d be fine with that.” 

Akaashi rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t complain when Bokuto remains seated at Akaashi’s feet and rests his head on his thigh. He even manages to finish off his makeup one-handed while he absently strokes the other through Bokuto’s hair.


	7. you're the ground (my feet won't reach)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm still alive! Coming back to this fun project keep my feral little multi-shipping brain satisfied while I work on some longer projects. [eyeballs emoji]
> 
> I hope you're all keeping safe and healthy!
> 
> Prompt: Pumpkin Carving  
> Ship: Ushijima/Tendou  
> Title From: This Side of Paradise by Coyote Theory
> 
> Enjoy!

The pumpkin carving party is supposed to be a team-building exercise--or as close to a team-building exercise as Reon can ever get them to perform, anyway--but for all Tendou’s concerned, the rest of the team might as well not even be there. 

He tries to be present, he wants to be--it is his last “team party” after all--but all he can seem to manage is a few snarky comments at the lopsided eyes Semi’s pumpkin is sporting and flicking seeds at Goshiki and Shirabu who, despite bickering the entire time they’ve been here, are still seated side-by-side. If the rest of the team notices his odd behavior (because quiet _is_ odd for him, after all), they don’t say anything. They probably think he’s still upset about the outcome of the Karasuno match, about the inability to continue on to Nationals alongside his team, about missing the last opportunity he has to snag a ticket to nationals.

And, sure, maybe there’s some of that lingering in the back of his mind. True, he’ll miss volleyball and everything that comes with being part of a team (acceptance, support, a sense of family if he’s feeling particularly sappy). But to be perfectly honest, the main source of his distraction sits across from him, thick eyebrows drawn together in concentration, carefully carving a swirl of tiny leaves into his pumpkin. Wakatoshi looks just like he does right before he serves or when he’s studying the first- and second-years during drills or when he’s watching DVDs of some of the other teams favored to win Nationals. 

Tendou’s heard their teammates and opponents alike comment on how scary the captain looks when he’s like that. But all Tendou can think is how he’d relish the opportunity to be the subject of that intense focus.

 _Jealous of a pumpkin_. _How pathetic._

The delicacy with which he works should be surprising, but Tendou has seen him wrap his teammates' knees, wrists, fingers--his own included, and his cheeks warm at the memory--enough times that the careful detail work those large spikers’ hands are capable of doesn't phase him in the slightest. Ushijima presses a thumb over the edge of the leaf he's just finished, smoothing it down, and Tendou tracks the movement so carefully that he narrowly avoids nicking his thumb with the tiny serrated blade he's been haphazardly jabbing into his own pumpkin.

Okay, so maybe it does phase him a little.

Ushijima meets his gaze and lifts an eyebrow in silent question and it’s all he can do to flash his friend a crooked grin before Semi leans in to inspect Tendou’s pumpkin with its wide, almost manic-looking smile and sharp, pointed teeth. The blonde snarks something about how Tendou should just shove a red feather duster in the top of his pumpkin and it’ll look just like him and he flips Semi the bird while simultaneously tucking that idea away for later--he won’t be around to torment his kouhai much longer and the idea of startling them with a manic pumpkin version of himself is too good to pass up entirely.

Ushijima’s eyes are still focused on Tendou and he’s starting to regret his earlier wish because, as it turns out, being the focus of a completely inscrutable gaze is unsettling and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t scare him what Ushijima is able to see in his own face. He’s never been that great at keeping his feelings under wraps and has been scraping by on the assumption that Ushijima’s had volleyball-blinders on since they’ve met. But now they’re at this awkward in-between stage that leaves Tendou feeling more vulnerable than he likes to admit.

“Drinks anyone?” He stands, suddenly. He feels himself getting lost in his thoughts--always a dangerous game to play--and his pumpkin is as good as it’s going to get, so an excuse for some air feels like a good move. Unfortunately, the very person who necessitates his escape trails along after him with a (reasonable) offer to help him carry the dozen-or-so drinks back in for their teammates. 

The silence stretches between them, save for the _chink_ of the coins and the _thunk_ of the drinks falling to the bottom of the vending machine. Ushijima grabs each drink as it falls and lines them all up in a neat row on the bench next to the machine. 

“Have you finalized your plans for after graduation?” 

Tendou starts, not so much at the question, but at the mere fact that Ushijima has been the one to break the silence. Ushijima _never_ breaks the silence between them, more content to let it sit there, heavy and loaded until it becomes too much for Tendou to deal with and he’s forced to spit out whatever nonsense pops into his head. 

“Mmm, not really,” he groans. The truth is, he’s been trying not to think about it, the whole what-comes-next thing. “You know I hate that term, finalized,” he wrinkles his nose in distaste. “It’s so…”

“Final?” Ushijima finishes for him and Tendou catches the slight lift at the corner of his mouth.

Tendou lets out a loud laugh, the way he always does when Ushijima makes an attempt at a joke. It’s so endearing, he can’t help it.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all go getting scouted by the national team now can we, Wakatoshi-kun?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Ushijima says, turning to look him full in the face. “Though...it would be nice.”

Tendou squints, trying to parse the expression on his friend’s face. Eyes soft and a little faraway, that hint of a smile still playing on his lips. It’s wistful, he thinks, and the expression looks so foreign on Ushijima’s face--Ushijima who is always single-mindedly looking forward, determined and steady--that it makes Tendou’s heart thump a little harder in his chest. 

“Eh?” He says, because a sentimental Ushijima Wakatoshi is not on the list of things he is even _remotely_ prepared to deal with. “You’re not getting sentimental in your old age, are you?”

“You’re older than I am, Satori.”

“Please,” Tendou rolls his eyes, “you’ve got an older soul than I’ll ever have.” 

Ushijima huffs out a quiet laugh and Tendou savors the sound. 

“Then I guess I am getting sentimental. I’ve just been thinking how much I-” he pauses, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. If Tendou didn’t know any better, he’d say Ushijima was nervous, but that can’t be right. Nervous isn’t in Ushijima’s nature. It’s reserved for...well, for people like him, people hopelessly, disgustingly in love with their best friend, people who resort to dumb jokes when sincerety bubbles too close to the surface and they’re at risk of being perceived.

“-how different it will be. Without you.” Ushijima finishes. Tendou’s been so busy spiralling, he almost misses it.

“Different? Yeah, I guess it will be,” he affirms. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know.”

Ushijima takes a small step forward and, with it, something shifts. It’s not like there’s not space between them, but what’s there still feels suffocating and Tendou just barely resists the urge to take a huge step back or, better yet, hurriedly gather up the drinks his teammates must be wondering about by now and escape back into the safety of the club meeting room.

“Normally I’d agree,” Ushijima says. “But I don’t think so in this case.”

Tendou waves a hand dismissively. “You’re gonna be standing out there with the best. You’ll forget all about us soon enough,” he laughs, because of course he does, and it must come out a little harsher than he intended because Ushijima frowns. “Anyway,” he continues quickly, “I’ll just be happy to watch you on TV and get to say I knew you when.”

“Satori,” Ushijima hums, and Tendou’s stomach flips because while Ushijima’s voice is usually quiet, it’s never this _soft_ , let alone when saying his name, a fact he can’t dwell on for too long at the risk of combusting. “I think you give both of us too little credit if you think I’m going to let you go that easily.”

He takes another step forward and there’s another shift and then Ushijima brings a hand up and presses it so gently, so carefully, against his cheek and it all clicks into place. 

“Wakatoshi,” Tendou’s voice comes out breathy and strange to his ears, but it makes Ushijima smile a fraction wider, so he continues. “You can’t...you shouldn’t say sappy stuff like that unless you mean it.”

“You should know by now that I don’t say anything I don’t mean,” he murmurs, then he kisses him.

Tendou had always thought that the moment Ushijima kissed him--though perhaps _fantasized_ is the more appropriate term, because he certainly never _expected_ it in any reality he inhabited--his brain would go fuzzy, the world would fall away, and so on and so forth. But the moment Ushijima leans in and presses his lips to Tendou’s, everything comes into sharper, clearer focus than ever before. The callouses on Ushijima’s hand, rough against his skin, the thudding of his own heart, beating wildly against his chest like it’s trying to escape, even the quiet hum of the drink machine’s cooler kicking in behind them, it’s all ratcheted up to a thousand.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, lips slotted gently together, quiet and still save for the shift of their heads and Tendou’s hand moving of its own accord to grip Ushijima’s shirt sleeve. He’s sure it’s less than a minute, but the way he struggles for breath when they part tells him it’s been a year.

Despite the breathlessness, Tendou can’t seem to wipe the goofy grin off of his face as he takes in the view of Ushijima with his lips turned up in what has to be the widest smile Tendou’s ever seen on his face (which, granted, is still not a grin or anything, but it’s the principle of the thing as far as he’s concerned) and a soft blush coloring his cheeks. It’s his new favorite facial expression and the sight is almost too much to bear and he rests his forehead against Ushijima’s shoulder.

“You keep surprising me, Wakatoshi-kun,” he mumbles and is rewarded with a low chuckle from Ushijima that Tendou feels from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. 

“Satori,” he says, and Tendou gathers his composure long enough to (reluctantly) lift his head. “We should probably take the drinks in.”

Tendou hums an agreement, though his resolve wavers quite a bit when Ushijima leans in to press a soft, barely-there kiss to his cheek before turning to start gathering the cans he’s so carefully lined up on the bench. 

They walk back towards the club room, side-by-side and with a lot less space between them than before and even though Tendou wouldn’t mind holding hands, for now he’s more than content with the press of Ushijima’s arm against his own.

“Hey, Wakatoshi,” he grins as they reach the club room and a thought occurs to him, because he loves nothing more than the confused crinkle of Ushijima’s brow as he seriously considers Tendou’s inane questions and dumb jokes (except for maybe his freshly-kissed expression, which is new and easily ranks first on that particular list). “You don’t happen to know where I could find a red feather duster on short notice, do you?”


End file.
